Come Morning Light
by androidilenya
Summary: Fingon pays a visit to Himring and the cousin he has not seen in several years – and finds Maedhros changed in more ways than one. (Written for lotr sesa 2013.)


**Written for Burning_Night at the lotr_sesa exchange, beta'd by the wonderful Elleth.**

**Note: alternates at the beginning between immediately post-Thangorodrim and after Maedhros moved to Himring. In terms of naming, the literal translation of Maitimo is _well-formed_. **

* * *

The first thing Maedhros said upon waking was a confused––__How did you find me?__, almost as though he did not remember the song, and the eagle, and the pain. Fingon rather thought that was for the better, all in all. He had seen the scars, had let his fingers drift over them as his cousin slept, and even that feather-light touch had been enough to make Maedhros shudder and pull away.

__I walked north__, he had settled on, setting aside the bowl of warm water he had been carrying (the only task the healers allowed him to help with, now that they were reasonably sure that the son of Fëanor would not de on them quite yet) as he hastened to Maedhros' side, brushing back strands of limp copper hair from his cousin's pale face. __You walk far enough, you'll find anything,__ he added, keeping his voice as light as he could. He did not, however, bother to mask the concern in his eyes as he bent over his cousin, but Maedhros' eyes were already drifting shut again, face relaxing.

__You should have left me there, __he had whispered right before his eyes closed fully, voice soft enough that Fingon couldn't quite be sure that he had heard him correctly.

He was asleep before Fingon could protest, but the words came regardless: __I could have never left you there, Maitimo.__

* * *

Wintertime in Himring never reminded Fingon of Valinor, though there had been snow there in the farther north, and his family had often ventured up that far to play and hunt in the winter woods. Both places had abundant snow, blown into enormous dunes of unblemished white, and skies of crystal, more white than blue.

This, however, this––__place__ (mountain, they called it, though Fingon leaned more towards __giant pile of sharp rocks__) where Maedhros had chosen to make his home: Himring was nothing like the golden woods of Aman.

He almost regretted accepting his father's request that he travel eastwards from Dor-lómin for the winter––the western territories were all quiet, and as the nights grew longer, Fingolfin wished to be sure of the eastern half as well. He did not quite express distrust in the sons of Fëanor, as there had been nothing but good news since they had left Mithrim, but the implication was certainly there.

Fingon had agreed, knowing he would see Maedhros for the first time since the seven had left––mere years, though still somehow enough time for Maedhros to build himself a castle. There had been no Orc-ambushes on the way over, so until he reached his cousin's keep, Fingon's impression of the area had been entirely favorable.

Upon entering, his impression of Himring had immediately soured.

"Was this truly necessary?" he asked Maedhros mere hours after his arrival in the mountainside fortress, halfway through the reluctantly led tour of the outer walls. He leaned over the battlements, glancing down at the sheer cliff that dropped down from beneath the wall, all sharp rocks and windblown snow. Behind him, his cousin paused in his explanation of the defenses of this section.

"Was what necessary?" Maedhros was visibly keeping back from the edge, cloak hung over his right arm to protect the stump there from the biting wind. It still pained him, Fingon knew that much, and all the more when the weather was worse.

"This." He indicated the mountains below them with a casual wave, then the spiking towers of Himring itself, piercing the bruised grey sky above. The slate roof was slick enough that the snow could not adhere to it, leaving the accumulated powder to slip off and crash down into the courtyards below. A drift of white was packed hard by guards' feet and wind against the leeward side of the wall. His feet slipped in this as he turned back towards Maedhros."I'm not sure what point you're trying to get across, unless it's that you are __extremely__ averse to the idea of visitors, in which case––"

"Come back inside," Maedhros interrupted, turning in a swirl of his black cloak and retreating back into the keep, boots ringing off the snow-slicked stone. Fingon lingered a moment longer, frowning at the dying sun sinking down behind the black mountains, then turned and followed him inside.

* * *

The first time Maedhros had walked on his own, Fingon had been right behind him (__hovering, like a mother hen,__ Maedhros had said scornfully, but the sharpness there had not been sufficient to hide the shaking of his legs and the way his entire body trembled when he finally managed to lever himself up off the bed, and so Fingon had stood stubbornly close, ready to catch him should he waver). And when Maedhros shook off his concerned protests and yanked the curtain that covered the door aside, stepping into the harsh autumn sunlight, Fingon had shaken his head and sighed.

__What are you doing, Maitimo?__

__I am tired of lying there as though there is nothing else I could be doing,__ Maedhros had snapped, turning suddenly and nearly losing his balance. He caught himself on the side of the house before Fingon could, and straightened with a grimace. __A prince of the Noldor should not be so weak.__

__You're still recovering,__ Fingon had protested, and then, realizing––__Maitimo. You're still king, why––__

Maedhros had given him a slow, tired glance. __No more, Findekáno.__

He had shaken his head, dismissing that. One of his father's soldiers passed by, her armor shining in the sun, and glanced with no small surprise at the red-haired elf leaning against the wall. Maedhros straightened with a visible effort, shot the soldier a cool glance. Fingon nearly laughed at the way she hurried past.

__You have become quite the legend here, Maitimo,__ he had noted with a laugh, stepping up to stand beside him, but when he brushed his hand against Maedhros' bare arm his cousin had flinched away so violently that he very nearly lost his balance again.

There was a moment of sudden quiet, the only sound that of the banners overhead snapping in the wind (his father's banners, silver and blue, and had that been a scowl on his cousin's face when he laid eyes on those?). Maedhros' eyes were bright and sharp, as if daring him to speak.

Fingon cleared his throat after what seemed like an interminable pause. __Come back and lie down.__

__I do not wish to lie in that thrice-damned bed of yours for another second,__ Maedhros had snapped, but his voice had held more exhaustion than spite, and he had allowed Fingon to take him by the elbow and lead him back into the shadows of the house.

* * *

Dinner in Himring was a quiet affair, seemingly, because even the talking of the soldiers of the keep seemed muffled by the high stone walls, and at the high table where Fingon sat alone with his two eldest cousins, there was very little speech indeed.

He had to wonder if, when Maglor was not in Himring, Maedhros ate in the hall by himself, alone at the high table, or if he retreated to his rooms to eat in solitude. He suspected the latter, of course, and thanked the Valar that Maglor had been summoned to report at the same time as Fingon's visit; the silence might have been utterly unbearable otherwise.

Maglor was thinner than the last time Fingon had seen him, but the haunted shadows under his eyes had faded––no more of the guilt-torn elf who had greeted Fingolfin's host under the light of the moon, hands spread wide and the crown on his head glinting cold and dull, the hopeless words on his lips––__he was taken, Findekáno, and we do not know if he is alive.__

Some things, at least, had changed for the better.

Maglor glanced up from his plate and caught Fingon staring at him. He cleared his throat and sat back with a smile. "How fare the western lands, cousin?" he asked, toying with the napkin draped across his lap.

Maedhros' head jerked up and he flashed a look that was not quite a glare at his brother. "Such things are best saved for council, Makalaurë."

"There's hardly anyone here to hear us, all the way up here," Maglor replied, voice biting, and Fingon jumped in hastily.

"My father's realm is doing well, as are the lands of my brothers. The news from Findaráto has been good, as well as––"

"And Turukáno?" Maedhros cut in, voice soft, and Fingon thought he might have caught a glint in his eyes, as if he knew the answer already, knew what Fingon's response __had__ to be. He shook his head, the smile slipping from his face, and wondered if that had been Maedhros' intent all along.

"No news from my brother." His father was not happy about that; Fingon knew he worried about the fact that the second in line for the throne was completely unreachable. In the event that both Fingolfin and his eldest son should fall in battle, the kingship would default to Turgon––but that, Fingon tried to remind himself, was no true concern. Not when the last assault from Morgoth had been so long ago.

"Carnistir has told me that the Dwarves have a saying," Maglor noted, taking a bite of the vegetables he had shoved to a corner of his plate, saved for last as Fingon knew he always had, even as a child––putting off the greenery until the very last moment. "__No news is good news__. Perhaps that holds true for the Eldar as well."

Fingon smiled. "Perhaps." And perhaps Turgon would reappear, and all would be well. And if not––they would manage. They always had, after all.

"After dinner, do you think that you could play us something?" he asked, turning to Maglor, who brightened visibly at that. Maedhros pushed away from the table and stood up, stretching, but neither of them looked at him.

"Of course I could."

* * *

Fingon's father had not allowed them to send news to the Fëanorian camp until they were absolutely sure that Maedhros would not perish in their camp, and Fingon had agreed––neither of them had any wish for all-out war with the six other brothers, the only sure result of such a message. And yet, when they finally did send word, Maglor appeared mere hours later, a lone rider with panicked eyes and bare need on his face, __let me see him, let me go to my brother––__

He had almost apologized for waiting so long to send word, had instead led Maglor to the house where Maedhros lay, still sleeping; yet that restless sleep had been broken by longer and longer periods of near-lucidity, and his wounds were all but healed.

Maglor had pushed past Fingon to stand at his brother's side, reached out instinctively and frozen an inch from Maedhros' face before Fingon could call out a warning––Maedhros did not take kindly to being woken suddenly, had torn open several wounds the first time he awoke in a blind panic, striking out at the healers that surrounded him.

When Maglor finally raised his head and looked at Fingon, there had been tears in those grey eyes; yet something of the grieving tension had left his body. __Thank you, Findekáno,__ he had said, and then: __You can leave, now. I will... I will sit by his side awhile longer, if it please you.__

Fingon had nodded wordlessly and stepped from the house, blinking away the sunshine that was too bright after the dimness of the interior. From within, he thought he heard a muffled melody start up, whisper-soft notes in a silver voice.

* * *

"Maitimo, what's the matter with you?"

From the corner by the fireside, the sound of Maglor's harp faded in and out, as though his fingers had slipped over the strings momentarily, but when Fingon glanced at him his grey eyes were trained on the fire, face unreadable.

Maedhros' face, by comparison, was all too easy to read––that was anger there, barely restrained, and flickering beneath that, pride. Yet when he spoke, his voice was soft and even: "What makes you think __anything__ is wrong, Findekáno?"

"You––" He shook his head, taking a sip from the glass Maglor had handed him a few minutes ago, the heady scent tickling his nose. The wine was starting to make his head spin; he had never been much of a drinker. "You've changed, Maitimo."

Maedhros made an abortive sound that might have been a protest, might have been the word __don't__. "We've all changed," he said instead. Not for the better, his tone implied, and Fingon found himself agreeing with that sentiment, at least.

"Perhaps, but you––maybe being cooped up in this cold fortress has been wearing on you, maybe––I think you should get out." __Leave this place, see something other than stark stone and cold, escape the whirling hatred that pounds through these walls__. Even Fingon could feel that, and he had barely been here for a few hours.

"I am perfectly fine where I am."

"Maitimo––"

"__Maedhros__," his cousin snapped, fist clenched at his side.

(Maedhros' face, turned away, the stump of his right wrist laying in full view on the white sheets, __Well-formed no more, Finno, you cannot call me that––__)

__No. Still beautiful, even now––despite it all. (Because of it all.)__

"That is not the name of the one I love," Fingon whispered, just low enough for Maedhros to hear, and across the room the harp fell silent, the silver notes fading into the suddenly chill air.

Maedhros' face spasmed, something unreadable crossing it, and then he stood with a violent motion, chair skittering back behind him. "There was no need for you to come here, Findekáno," he said, and though Fingon would have expected him to snarl those words he did __not__, and perhaps the calm coldness there was even more terrifying. "I welcome my cousin for as long as he wishes to stay, but know that you are not needed in my house."

He spun away, cloak whipping through the air, and the sound of footsteps on the stairs echoed back, swiftly fading.

Fingon glanced at the fireside, found Maglor watching him with quiet, inscrutable eyes. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, not sure what he wanted to ask.

Maglor looked back down at his harp, long fingers sweeping the silver strings, a single note rising with a soft sound like regret.

* * *

Maedhros' face had been carefully blank that summer day, and the golden light streaming in between the high branches had been muted somehow, for all that it glinted off the armour of all those gathered in Fingolfin's camp. The seven sons were all wearing newly-polished armor, the red of the plumes on their helmets stark against the blue of Fingon's father's court.

__They will not allow him to go through with it,__ Turgon had whispered to him, restrained anger and distrust heavy in his voice, and Fingon had wanted to snap at him, tell him that no, he knew Maedhros, and Maedhros would keep his word––if he said he was giving up the crown, then that was what he was damn well going to __do__.

Instead, he had shaken his head and kept his mouth shut, not wanting to provoke his brother, not today.

__Present a unified front, and the rest will be more cautious when probing for weakness. __That much he knew to be true. This was not Valinor, and they were no longer children (had not been, for some time now).

He had seen the rage in Caranthir's face when Maedhros knelt before Fingolfin, the way Celegorm all but snarled, Maglor's sigh as he closed his eyes. And Fingon had also been able to see Maedhros' knees trembling, even from where he stood––his cousin was too weak yet to be out in a full suit of armor, but that had not stopped him from insisting that he had to do this and do it __now__.

One by one, the sons had knelt, seven sets of armored knees hitting the soft ground, seven heads bowing before Fingolfin, some less willingly than others. Fingon saw his father taking note of those who hesitated (and there was no large surprise regarding who those were), and when the sons rose he saw Maedhros' eyes flick backwards as though half-expecting one of them to lunge forward and seize the crown from Fingolfin's head.

__I pledge my loyalty to the High King, insofar as I am able to grant it,__ Maedhros had said, voice echoing through the camp, and Fingon had caught the whispers running through the gathered people like wind through the grass––insofar as his Oath allowed, they said, those words that should have never been spoken, damned from the moment they left their mouths. Fingon had not allowed his fists to clench, could not allow them to see his anger––but they did not know what they spoke of.

(_And see what those words have done already to those who spoke them, do you not think that it is enough––_)

Fingolfin had offered Maedhros his hand, and Fingon had seen the hesitation there before Maedhros bowed his head over it, flaming hair falling in his face. And after that, the brothers would follow––they did, they always did, but sometimes Fingon wondered how much longer that would last. For now, the rest bowed over Fingolfin's hand, brushing their lips against the ornate gold ring there––and perhaps Celegorm's eyes flashed slightly as he did so, and perhaps Curufin's smile was a little too sharp, but none of them spoke aloud the thoughts that must have been raging just beneath the surface.

Fingon had watched Maedhros walk away, and it might have been his imagination but his cousin's head seemed to be held higher without the weight of the thin golden circlet that now rested on Fingolfin's head.

* * *

"Does he do that often?" Fingon asked as Maglor led him up to a guest room.

Maglor paused on the stairs, the candle in his hand flickering in a high draft from the nearby window. "Do what, dear cousin? Strike out at anyone who offers him assistance, even when it is painfully clear that he cannot stand on his own? Surely you know that he has __always__ been thus." There was something like bitter humor in his voice; perhaps Maedhros was not the only one who had changed.

"He's always been proud, none can deny that––"

"And you think that he would have lost that when he gave up Atar's crown?" Maglor asked, and there was an odd emphasis on the possessive that Fingon wasn't sure he liked very much.

__If my father were here––__

But he was not, and perhaps that was for the best. And of all of Maedhros' brothers, Maglor was perhaps the one Fingon would have been most comfortable speaking to.

"He was so __angry, __Makalaurë, he's never done that––"

"It is how he greets most old friends, truth be told. And why should you be an exception to his fury, pray tell?" Maglor paused in front of a half-open door, gesturing that Fingon enter.

"We were... friends," Fingon replied, the words falling oddly in the empty air. It was not an answer, and they both knew it. He pushed his way into the dark room, the looming shadow of a bed greeting him, the carpet shifting under his feet.

"And I am his brother," Maglor said simply, following with the candle. "And you were far more than friends. There is no need to pretend otherwise with me."

Fingon turned and caught the flicker on Maglor's face before his cousin could arrange it back into its usual calm mask. "You––"

"Do you know how much he cared about you?" Maglor interrupted, voice flat, and Fingon blinked, startled. "Sometimes he wakes screaming, though he denies it in the morning. It was every night, after he came back, and the entire camp would see him emerge from his tent with shadows under his eyes and his arm wrapped in a cloak and would have to pretend they did not see that, that he was still the same––because he hated pity, even from his brothers, and perhaps he hated us as well, for not––"

"He doesn't hate you," Fingon tried, and Maglor plowed on over him, a determined light in his eyes, as though he had wanted to say these words for a long time.

"I should have gone after him, everyone knows that, but I was a coward to the very end. And when he cannot sleep, when he cries out in the middle of the night, do you know whose name is on his lips?" Maglor leaned closer, the candle flickering and casting flame up his pale skin, reflecting in his flat grey eyes. "It is not mine, I can tell you that, nor that of any of my brothers."

__Oh, Maitimo.__

"I––" __I'm sorry,__ he had meant to say, but Maglor cut him off with a sharp jerk of his head, stepping abruptly away, setting the candle down on a low table.

"I do not need your apologies." That same cold voice, like his brother's––and perhaps Maglor heard that as well, because a small, unamused smile flitted across his face. "And Mai––__Nelyo__ is not the only one who has changed."

Fingon nodded. Maglor turned to leave, then paused in the doorway, as if remembering something.

"For what it's worth, Finno, I think your idea is a good one," he said to the empty hallway, and Fingon shook his head.

"Excuse me?"

Maglor glanced back over his shoulder, the mask firmly in place now, calm courtesy and disdain. "Your idea that he leave this place for awhile. Convince him to let you take him out of here, Findekáno, somewhere new. It would be... good for him."

Fingon nodded. "I shall try."

* * *

The next morning, Maglor gave no hint of the conversation he and Fingon had had. He talked gamely on through the otherwise quiet breakfast, providing Fingon with trivial details about Himring's state of affairs and the doings of various brothers as if desperate to prevent the conversation from slipping back into silence. He was studiously not looking at his brother; the fact was made more apparent the more he tried.

Maedhros did not speak a word through the entire ordeal, the only sound from his side of the table the soft clink of his utensil on the plate.

By the time their plates were clean, Maglor seemed near to exhausting his repertoire of petty information (he kept shooting Fingon meaningful glances, as if asking him to say something helpful). Fingon leaned forward, clearing his throat.

"And how are you this morning?" he asked Maedhros, smiling. If he had expected one in return, he was disappointed.

"Well enough." Maedhros paused, then seemed to remember his courtesy: "And––your quarters were acceptable, I hope."

"More than." Fingon felt his smile widen. "It is a __quite__ comfortable bed, you––I do hope yours is as––"

"I'm glad," Maedhros interrupted sharply, eyes trained on some point above Fingon's head, and Fingon's smile slid from his face. "Very well. If you need me, I will be in my study, looking over the latest scouting reports." __Do not interrupt me,__ his tone clearly said, and Fingon's fists clenched under the table.

"Not today, Maitimo." He saw the flicker in Maedhros' eyes, but there was no protest yet, only surprise. He took advantage of his hesitation: "Makalaurë can deal with Himring's matters for a few days; you need to leave. Get some space. I passed through some wonderful woods on my way here, and the mountains can be beautiful in the winter––"

"And deadly," Maedhros replied cooly, standing and pushing his chair in. "I will not hear any more of this foolish idea, Findekáno, I have work to do."

"Work that your brother is well equipped to deal with," Fingon pointed out, and Maedhros' eyes flashed.

"Do you speak for Makalaurë now, as well?"

Maglor cleared his throat, eyes trained on the tabletop. "Nelyo, it's a good idea. I can take care of a few scouting reports. You know as well as I do that nothing of great import happens in Himring during the winter months."

For a moment, Fingon thought Maedhros might lash out again and storm away, but after a long, frozen second he simply leaned back and gave them both a sharp-edged smile, shaking his head. There was something too calm about his voice when he finally spoke, a razor edge of scornful anger lurking just under the surface.

"If both of you grant me no peace otherwise, I suppose I have no choice but to suffer such an expedition. When shall we leave?"

* * *

A light snow had fallen overnight, dusting the already hard-packed ice with a glittering coat, sunlight shining off the diamond-lined tree branches that arched overhead. There were fewer trees here than in Dor-lómin, but there was never quite this much snow on the flatter plains; Fingon thought it was a fair enough trade.

He would have shared this observation with his companion if he had thought that Maedhros would acknowledge it.

His cousin had not spoken a word to him the entire afternoon, ever since they had set out from Himring. Fingon had looked back as they left and seen Maglor standing on one of the endless balconies, watching them leave. Maglor had trusted him to take Maedhros out, to bring him back in one piece––and maybe more, maybe something else, but if Maglor expected him to bring back a __different__ Maedhros, someone a bit more like the one they had both known, once (__Maitimo,__ not this name that was still foreign, after all these years)––perhaps that was impossible.

This, then: was this supposed to __change__ anything? Fingon did not think he was so naïve, thought that he knew as well as any that Maedhros was... had been made the way he was by what had happened to him. He would not __change__, not for Fingon, not even for himself.

__No. You know that is impossible––even you, you are not the same person you once were. How could you expect him to have not changed as well?__

(And yet, below that: __you never truly smile anymore, Maitimo, I wish I could see that again––__)

There had been a sharp, brittle quality to Maedhros after––after it all, a feeling of a shattered edge somewhere, jagged and deadly. Time had smoothed out the edges into something resembling a whole, yet had only sharpened that edge to razor sharpness. He had been broken, and the fault lines remained.

Maedhros paused at the crest of a hill, breath fogging the chill air. He did not glance at Fingon when the latter finally reached the top as well, panting slightly, but kept his eyes trained on the jagged mountains beyond which the setting sun was visible. He, of course, did not seem at all out of breath.

"My legs are aching," Fingon noted without thinking, and Maedhros made a noise of soft scorn.

"Rethinking this expedition, are we?"

"Not at all." He forced a cold smile and straightened up. "Is this where we make our camp for the night?"

"I suppose it is." Maedhros threw down the bundle he had been carrying for most of the afternoon; the bundle that apparently contained a remarkably compact tent that was (according to Maglor) designed by Caranthir. Fingon stood by, feeling distinctly unhelpful as Maedhros knelt to set it up.

"Do you––" he started to say, and Maedhros shook his head immediately, strands of red hair slipping loose from beneath his hood.

"I do not require your assistance."

__No, you never have, isn't that right?__

"Fine." He crossed his arms, shivering slightly. The cold was worse, now that they were no longer moving. Fingon thought he might be feeling the chill is his very bones before too long. Maedhros did not shiver. (Of course he didn't.)

It took only a few minutes before the tent was fully set up; it seemed that Maedhros had done this before. He disappeared into it without a word, dragging his pack after him, and Fingon only hesitated a moment longer before following him in.

"We used to do this, before," he said, and Maedhros glanced at him, eyes unreadable.

"So we did." Not much, but at least a response. Emboldened, Fingon went on:

"That was fun. Atar started getting suspicious, after awhile––us going on all those hunting trips and never once catching a thing. Turvo took to calling me the worst hunter Aman had ever seen, did you know that?" He chuckled, aware of the silence that filled the tent. "I didn't mind. It was... worth it."

Maedhros opened his mouth, then closed it and turned away. "I am in no mood for your clumsy attempts at––at whatever it is you are trying to do," he told the cloth wall of the tent, hands busy at the ties on his pack.

"I was merely speaking of times past. Surely even you indulge in such things from time to time." It came out a bit sharper than Fingon had intended, but be was beginning to think that sharpness was the only way to get through to Maedhros.

He expected something along the lines of __dwelling in the past is useless, __or __what do I care for what has passed––__that he could have worked with, that would have been a response of some sort. Instead, Maedhros turned away, spreading out his sleeping mat and lying down with his face to the wall of the tent.

Fingon watched the even rise and fall of Maedhros' shoulders as the light dimmed, the wind outside howling through the bare trees and making the doorway of the tent flutter against the ropes holding it shut.

__Damn you, Maitimo,__ he thought, exhaustion and anger a tight ball in the pit of his stomach. He spread himself out on his own sleeping mat and closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds of his cousin's breathing until oblivion claimed him.

* * *

He jerked awake, disoriented, and sat up. The air in the tent was cold, the darkness pressing in around him.

Something was wrong.

There was another soft noise from Maedhros' side of the tent––that must have been what woke him. His cousin was stirring, restless movement jarring the tent. His breath was coming faster, the sound harsh and too loud in the stillness.

"Maitimo?" he whispered hesitantly, half-rising to crawl over. Maedhros made a noise almost like a whimper, and then screamed, the tortured noise seeming torn from his throat. In the dimness, Fingon saw him thrashing, fighting the empty air, body arching up off the mat, the scream tapering off into a choking sort of keening noise.

Fingon lunged across the tent without thinking, grabbed Maedhros' shoulders and shook him. "Maitimo, wake up, wake __up__––"

Maedhros' eyes snapped open, and even in the darkness Fingon could see the feral gleam in his grey eyes, the snarl on his lips as the scream cut off abruptly. Something crashed into the side of Fingon's head and he reeled back, colors flashing across his vision, and it took him a heartbeat to realize that that had been Maedhros' __fist.__

His cousin's hand closed around his throat, lifting him bodily back and slamming him to the floor. Fingon managed to draw in a single, gasping breath before Maedhros' grip tightened, cutting off his air, bearing down––

He bucked upwards, kicking out, hands clawing at the iron grip around his throat. Maedhros' face was a mask of anger and pain, eyes fixed on something past his cousin.

__"Maitimo,"__ Fingon choked out, and saw something click in Maedhros' eyes. The wild fury drained out abruptly as Maedhros loosened his grip.

"Findekáno?" He kept his hand there, on his neck, and Fingon sucked in a breath, the cold air searing his suddenly raw throat.

__Fool, startling him like that, you should have known––__

"It's me," he replied, voice hoarse. __Calm. Stay calm. __"I'm sorry, Maitimo, I shouldn't have woken you like that."

"No, I––" Now he moved, a lightning-quick snap backwards and away from Fingon, putting as much distance between them as the cramped tent would allow. His left hand clenched and unclenched at his side reflexively. "Makalaurë should've warned you," he said, the light note in his voice painfully forced. "I tend to be a... restless sleeper."

"That's one way of putting it." Fingon levered himself back up into a sitting position and wrapped his arms around his knees, shivering.

Maedhros watched him warily, hand clenched around the fabric of the cloak he had draped over his lap, obscuring the stump of his arm.

"Are they always that bad?" he finally asked, only half expecting a response.

Something flickered across Maedhros' face, as though he were considering being difficult, asking what Fingon meant. Eventually, he said, "Some... some worse than others. But dreams, unpleasant though they are, cannot hurt me."

"Hm." Fingon rubbed his throat with one hand, wincing––there would be bruises there, on the morrow. "Perhaps." __They hurt others, though, through you, and that is only one thing,__ he thought, and did not say; perhaps that was clear enough. "Do you––do you want to talk about it?"

Maedhros shook his head jerkily, eyes going to his lap, where the cloth bulged up over his right wrist. "I––no, Finno, you know already. And I would not burden anyone with the circles my own mind likes to pace."

Fingon waited.

After a long pause, Maedhros sighed, a flash of self-loathing in his eyes, anger and pain and an odd sort of resignment. He looked up, eyes fixed on the blank wall of the tent above Fingon.

"When you were on the ice," he began slowly, and Fingon nearly flinched––of all the things to bring up, __that__––

"I don't––" he began, and Maedhros spoke over him, voice soft and flat and hard as steel, spoken to the tent cloth.

"When you were crossing the ice, you––did you ever dream that you lost everyone, that you were alone, the only one in a world of white, and all the rest gone?"

__Atar slipping under, the ice streaked red by his pounding against it. Iressë a dark bundle lowered into a black sea––__Fingon swallowed, then nodded, not quite trusting his voice.

"Then that, over and over, but __real__, or something close enough that you do not know the difference between it and a dream, the same pain and blood and terror played out before your eyes until you find yourself praying that they __are__ dead, everyone you've ever loved, because if they're dead then they could never have to endure __this__, not––" His voice broke and he closed his eyes, took a shuddering breath before going on, every word dragged from him as if against his will. "And if they are dead, then the pain doesn't matter, but if they aren't, if you could––and if they're dead, and you cannot join them, then what is the use of it all? I wished you dead, cousin, a thousand times over, and my brothers, and myself dead with them."

Fingon would have shuddered if he could move, were he not frozen by this outpouring of words, this helpless stream of poison.

"When you came," Maedhros added, impossibly quiet, "when you came and I felt you touch me, I __wanted__ you to be real. And I hated myself for wanting that, because if you were here it meant they would hurt you, and that––"

"Maitimo." Fingon reached forward, expecting Maedhros to draw back, and when he didn't he wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close. Maedhros' head fell forward, resting against Fingon's neck, breath hot on the bare skin there.

"I do not need your pity," Maedhros whispered into him, lips brushing Fingon's skin lightly enough to send a shiver down his spine. Fingon shook his head, tangling his fingers in the red curls damp with sweat.

"And I did not offer it."

Maedhros raised his head, eyes flashing some of his customary pride: "Findekáno, there is no need––"

"I did not __offer__ you pity," Fingon interrupted, raising his voice, tongue tripping over the words in his haste to get them out, because this was __real__, this __mattered__, and this was perhaps the first time Maedhros had truly spoken to him in a long, long time. "I offer you love, Maitimo, but no pity. Never that." He hesitated, then leaned down, brushed his lips against Maedhros'. His cousin stiffened against him but did not draw away.

"Why?" His voice was a cracked whisper, an echo of old pain in his eyes, hand clenched around Fingon's wrist hard enough to bruise. Fingon didn't pull free despite the pain. "Why, Findekáno, I can't––I was never worth the saving, you should have __known__ that––"

"Wrong." He yanked him in closer, their mouths crashing together, and he felt Maedhros relax into him, a soft noise rising in his throat that was not scorn or disgust or anger but something almost like __acceptance__.

He pulled away. "Maitimo, you beautiful, proud fool. Did you not know that I loved you? And isn't that enough?"

"For you, perhaps," Maedhros whispered, but there was no scorn in his voice, and when he moved again it was to slump forward into Fingon's arms, hand stealing up to tangle itself in Fingon's hair, a long sigh escaping his lips, like the first deep breath he had had in a while.

Fingon held him tight, counting the spaces between his breaths, and hoped that morning would never come.


End file.
